


Ashes In Space

by fanfictiongreenirises



Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [16]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Don't copy to another site, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Good Bro Jason Todd, Grief/Mourning, Not Really Character Death, Presumed Dead, but don't worry they all get one, no beta we typo like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23717782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictiongreenirises/pseuds/fanfictiongreenirises
Summary: Nightwing is pronounced dead.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622032
Comments: 63
Kudos: 562
Collections: Dick & Ensemble, everybody loves dick





	Ashes In Space

**Author's Note:**

> For the "I thought you were dead" square on my Batman bingo card.
> 
> WARNING: This fic deals with the aftermath of Dick being thought dead. It's entirely from Bruce's perspective, and he's, as expected, not okay. Please don't read if you think you're going to be triggered by this.
> 
> Disclaimer: DC is really really not mine

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It had begun as one of the more ordinary days of Bruce’s life. He’d wrapped things up at work neatly on Friday, and it was now Saturday morning and he had nothing pressing to do until patrol.

He’d gotten to eat his whole breakfast, without having to fend off kids stealing bites of toast and sips of coffee. When was the last time Bruce had had a whole omelette to himself? He even got through the whole newspaper without having to break up fights, which was when he blinked up, wondering what was going on.

“Alfred?” he called, taking his plate into the kitchen.

“Yes, Master Bruce?” Alfred looked up from where he was rifling through a cupboard.

“Where is everyone?” It felt a little bit irresponsible to be admitting to not knowing the locations of both the kids that lived with him, but Alfred had watched Bruce blunder through too many parenting incidents to judge him for this. Or so he hoped.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Tim is with the team,” he said. “Apparently there was a rescheduling of a bonding session. He’s due back tomorrow night. And Damian is at the Kent farm. You said goodbye to him this morning.”

Bruce blinked. “Oh.” He had vague recollections of someone shaking him awake and speaking to him. “I’m guessing he’s there for the weekend, too?”

“Yes,” Alfred said, eyeing him. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get on with this pecan pie. We can’t let this weather go to waste.”

Bruce had no idea what the weather had to do with baking, but he refrained from asking. Instead, he helped with the washing up; he hadn’t had a proper conversation with Alfred in what felt like forever.

* * *

Bruce was in his office when his phone – his private one – rang.

“Clark,” he said, pressing it between his ear and shoulder as he capped his pen.

“Bruce.” Clark’s voice sounded heavy, hesitant. Bruce was immediately on edge. “I… I’m going to come drop Damian off in a bit, okay? We need to talk.”

Bruce frowned. “Did something happen?”

Another pause. “I’ll explain to you when I arrive. It’s better in person.”

Damian had probably threatened to stab a guest or something, Bruce figured. He went back to the case file before him, trying to ignore the pit of foreboding in his stomach.

It took Clark half an hour to arrive, with a sullen Damian in the passenger seat. He stormed into his room with Jon – who snuck in through the back, evidently having flown – the moment they arrived.

Clark was silent all the way to the sitting room.

“Clark?” Bruce prompted.

Clark stared at his hands, before he finally looked up into Bruce’s eyes. Bruce’s heart sank, part of him already knowing what Clark was going to say. The dread built up in him until he was refraining from shaking Clark by the shoulders, demanding he spill whatever the news was.

“Bruce, they—” Clark broke off, taking a breath and restarting. “There was a simple recon mission in space. Nightwing went, with a few other superheroes. We just got word that there was an explosion. I went up there, with Hal, to try and figure out what happened. We… the ship was in pieces. Strewn absolutely everywhere. We found scraps of clothing, equipment. No one could’ve survived.”

Bruce couldn't breathe, but he forced himself to drag in air. He stood up abruptly. There was a ringing in his ears, just as there’d been from the moment Clark had uttered Dick’s name. “I want every detail of the mission,” he ground out. He hadn’t even known Dick was going to be in space.

Clark looked at him, grief clouding his vision. “I’ll make sure you have them,” he said in a quiet voice. “Bruce… you should be the one to tell Damian. It’s why I brought him back – he deserves to hear it from you. I called Tim, told him there’s an emergency. He should be here soon, too. I’ll track down Cassandra and Jason—”

“No,” Bruce interrupted. His voice felt like it was coming from a distant. “No, I’ll do it.”

Clark nodded. “If there’s anything—”

“I would like to be alone,” Bruce said. “Please.”

* * *

In the end, Bruce told Damian and Tim that night, video calling Cassandra when the boys had dissipated, and Jason the following morning when he came in after a late patrol.

Bruce let Clark break the news to Alfred, unable to look at him in the eye and speak the words. There was something different about telling the rest of the kids, something about holding himself together so they didn’t see him breaking, that he’d never had to with Alfred. He couldn’t say it, not like that.

Bruce went through the documents Clark had given him. They’d been on the way back when the ship had spontaneously exploded. Nothing was left to signify foul play, and system diagnosis of the ship from the last time they had checked in showed that there were no malfunctions that could’ve caused an explosion like this.

The trip had apparently been a week long, with two day’s trip in either direction. It was uncertain just how long ago the explosion had been before the League had realised something was amiss.

Bruce could’ve been in a pointless board meeting while his son had died in space. The thought of it left him unable to move, until he shoved it away and forced himself to read through the files again.

* * *

It was Jason, of all people, who got Bruce out of the Cave a week after Clark’s visit. He looked terrible, with the dark circles under his eyes indicating that he’d slept just as well as Bruce had, stubble littering his jawline. His fingers twitched like they craved a cigarette.

“B,” he said, one hip leaning against the wall by the Batcomputer. “Come on. You’re not going to find anything new in there.”

Bruce didn’t respond, because there was _always_ something more. He had to know, had to piece together what had happened.

“Bruce,” Jason tried again, “please. You’re worrying us. Alfred’s going to come down next.”

Bruce looked up at him, finally. “I’m not hungry,” he said.

“None of us are.” Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Dick wouldn’t’ve wanted—”

“Don’t,” Bruce ground out. “Don’t use him like that.”

Steel glinted in Jason’s eyes as he straightened. “Fine. But you’re coming up for air whether you like it or not. Tim and Damian, they need you right now. You can’t just stay cooped up down here and expect them to deal with this on their own.”

They aren’t alone, Bruce thought. They have you.

It was strange, how quickly and efficiently Jason had stepped up. He’d already been spending more time with them than ever; he and Bruce hadn’t had a fight or disagreement in about two weeks, a new record for them. And now it seemed that in the absence of Dick, he’d sunken into the role of the eldest sibling.

Sometimes, when Bruce looked at him, all he could see was the body he’d cradled in the ruins of a warehouse, the torn-up costume. Diana had come to deliver the remains they’d found, in a tiny little box. There was a torn-up glove, the bright blue fingerstripes still vivid, and three batarangs. And that was it. That was all that was left of Dick.

Bruce hadn’t been able to look at it, to touch them, but a day later he forced himself to open the box and evaluate the state of the objects, even when he’d thrown up in a trash can halfway through.

“Alright,” he said. His muscles had locked into place, the slumped position doing his back no good. Bones popped and creaked as he stood; when was the last time he’d felt his age as acutely as he did now?

Jason blinked, evidently not expecting him to agree. “Good,” he said, turning and walking up the stairs.

* * *

Tim was quiet, and Damian was a ball of fury to mask the grief. Bruce hadn’t been on patrol for a week, too intent on analysing the details of the mission. Cass was wrapping things up as fast as she could, and Bruce called her before and after every patrol – her time – to make sure she was alright.

* * *

“What’re we doing about the funeral?”

Bruce looked up in surprise, because it was _Tim_ of all people who had come to his office to ask. He hadn’t been in to work yet officially, but there were things that had to be done, especially since they hadn’t told anyone that Dick had died.

It’d been two weeks. People would start inquiring soon, start poking. They needed to get something in place.

Bruce didn’t want to think about any of these details, but he had to. “We’ll announce it at the end of this week,” he murmured.

Tim didn’t tell him how much of a giant cop-out this was, putting it off for six days. It was then, in the silence, that Bruce realised Tim was still standing there.

“Tim?” he asked, looking at his son for what was possibly the first time since Dick had died. “Are you…” It was a stupid question, because of course he wasn’t alright. Nothing about this was alright.

Tim shrugged. “Doing as well as I can be, I guess,” he said, face far too neutral for Bruce’s liking.

“C’mere.” He pushed away from the desk, walking over to the door where Tim leaned against the wall.

He melted into Bruce’s arms, as though he’d been holding his breath this whole time. Bruce clutched at him just as hard, chin resting in Tim’s hair.

* * *

Patrol was quieter than it’d ever been, with Damian practically a void beside him. Bruce’s punches hit a little harder than he intended, but Damian was all precision and carefully placed blows.

In a way, it helped Bruce reel himself in, because the way Damian would look at him after they took down a group of goons made something dark and loathing sink into his chest. He might’ve failed another son now, but he wouldn’t allow himself to disappoint this one.

So another Robin pulled Batman out of the darkness. Dick probably would’ve said something about symbolism.

Damian’s footsteps were deliberately audible – but just barely – that night, when he cracked open Bruce’s door and his tiny socked feet made their way in.

“Damian,” Bruce whispered, turning his body.

Without a word, Damian climbed in, and Bruce shuffled back a little to make space for him. It was just like Damian to get in on the side he was occupying, he thought with amusement. The rest of them had always moved around to the free side.

But that dragged with it memories of a house populated with only three people, so Bruce shoved that thought in the deepest recesses of his mind and tried to focus on Damian curling up around his middle.

He didn’t say a word, and Bruce didn’t comment on the damp patch on his shirt.

* * *

It was habit now, to seek higher ground when he was troubled. Bruce had always found comfort in gazing at the stars, at being able to identify, with scientific clarity, each constellation. But now he looked at the sky, and all he could see were the ashes of his dead son floating in the air.

* * *

He visited Tim’s apartment on Alfred’s night off, because Clark had called him with a voice that bordered on sympathy a little too much, and Bruce had told him he was going to visit Tim and Jason for an excuse to get off the phone.

Bruce hadn’t realised that Damian would also be there, but this was one of the nights he spent patrolling with Dick, and he hadn’t been at the Manor. Bruce didn’t want to admit he’d lost track of his eleven-year-old.

“Bruce,” Jason said when he opened the door, clearly surprised. The next words out of his mouth were clearly going to be along the lines of _did something happen?_ so Bruce saved him from having to jump to worst case scenarios.

“I heard you’d moved in with Tim.”

Jason shrugged, moving away to let him in. “Not really. But someone’s gotta make sure he sleeps,” he said. “I split my time between here and my other places.”

Bruce nodded, unsure of what to say, as they entered the living room/kitchen/dining area. Damian was hunched forward on the couch, hood drawn up over his face and his fingers moving over the buttons of the controller rapidly. Beyond that, he didn’t move, body completely still. It was a little eerie to watch.

“Bruce.” Tim’s voice was equally as surprised.

“Tim,” Bruce said, dredging up something that hopefully looked like he was a few steps away from a smile, instead of on the opposite end of the facial expression spectrum.

At a tiny noise, Tim turned to look behind him, down the hall leading to the bedroom. Bruce frowned, about to say something, when a figure walked out of the spare bedroom.

“Cassandra,” Bruce said, blinking. “I thought you were arriving in the morning.”

Cass stepped forward, out of the shadows, and Bruce took in his daughter. He hadn’t seen her in person in a month or so.

“Rescheduled it at the last minute,” she said. Her lips didn’t quite smile, but they mirrored Bruce’s: a few steps away from a smile, instead of closer to a grimace. Maybe that was the best they could hope for, right now. “I was going to come to the Manor tomorrow.”

It stung a little that she hadn’t let him know, at least, but Bruce swallowed it down. Cass didn’t give him time to think of a response, closing the gap between them and wrapping her arms around his middle. Bruce sank into the hug, body bowing down. Something loosened at having Cassandra here with them in Gotham.

They ended up having supper – or a very early breakfast – in front of the TV, some outrageously dramatic reality show playing. All four of the kids seemed a little too invested in the contestants, but Bruce was relieved that there was no need to fill up the space with conversation.

All his kids, as of two weeks and three days ago, here under one roof. Would it always feel like something was missing?

Bruce remembered how hard Dick had tried to get them all together, for a meal or even just a case. He swallowed down the bitterness at the thought that his death would bring them together like this, with no meticulous planning and damage control needed.

* * *

Losing Dick was different to losing Jason. Most days when he woke, still in that haziness of sleep, Bruce could forget that he was dead, could pretend – if he truly tried to – that Dick was just a phone call and thirty-minute drive away. He could imagine that he and Dick had had a fight, and Dick was avoiding him.

The Manor echoed the same as it had when Dick was in his own apartment and its only inhabitants were Bruce, Alfred, Tim, Damian, and Damian’s assorted animals. It was entirely psychological to find it emptier, to feel that the shadows were darker.

Cass entered his room the morning she was supposed to have arrived. She sat down on the edge of his bed, giving Bruce the opportunity to properly wake and sit up.

She didn’t turn to look at him, gazing out the window as she said, “I’m sorry. That I didn’t tell you I was here.”

Bruce exhaled. “It’s alright,” he said. “I’m not the best at dealing with… emotional situations. It’s probably good that you saw the boys first.”

“They’re worried about you,” Cass said. “That you’re going to fall into old habits again.”

Bruce huffed a breath. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m worried about _them_ , and you. I don’t—I can’t—”

Cass finally turned to face him, to properly look him in the eyes. She placed a hand on his arm. “We won’t,” she said.

* * *

Dick’s room remained untouched. Bruce knew, from experience, that Alfred would one day go in there and resume dusting as though he’d never stopped, as though the room’s inhabitant would return to use it again someday, but for now the door was closed and no one ventured near it.

The open door was the first thing Bruce noticed as he came up the stairs. Only Alfred and Jason were currently in the Manor – Cass had gone out somewhere with Tim and Steph, and Damian was with Jon. He wouldn’t begrudge Jason his grief, but didn’t he realise that—

The air left Bruce’s lungs, for the second time that past month.

It wasn’t Jason in the room.

“B,” Dick said with a relieved grin. “I think something _really_ weird just— _oof!_ ”

Bruce had dragged him out of the room and pinned him to the wall before he could finish talking, before this imposter could try and weave a net that sent _doubt_ and _hope_ down Bruce’s spine.

“How dare you,” he hissed. “You come in here, imitating a dead man, and think we wouldn’t notice?”

Dick’s eyes, already bewildered, widened. Bruce refused to look away, but every second he spent staring at the face he’d never see again, not really, was another second he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

“Bruce?” Jason’s voice, down the hallway. “If you broke something, you can’t blame it on…”

His voice trailed off as he neared them, step faltering as he neared.

“Jay,” Dick said, slumping a little in relief. “It’s me! Tell B he’s finally lost his marbles.”

Jason, instead of answering, pressed down on a pressure point, and Dick fell unconscious, but not before a look of indignation passed his face.

Jason was breathing harder than was warranted. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Bruce couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment, even as he carried down the body to the Cave. He ignored that it felt just like Dick always had.

* * *

They stared at the results of the DNA test, Bruce’s heart beating frantically in his chest.

“Can’t fucking believe this,” Jason was saying. “I’m gonna kill him, I swear. Fucking showing up in his own _room_ in the goddamn _Manor_? Are you shitting me?”

Quite frankly, Bruce had stopped paying attention to Jason’s quiet rant the first two times it had circled back around to the same thing. He understood, though. But mostly, he was just numb. There was an overwhelming surge of emotions that awaited him when he’d finished processing this, but right now, he was willing to just sit in the chair.

Dick finally stirred, when Jason had moved on to the punching bags. It seemed that _his_ pent-up emotions were finally coming out.

“You tested me?” was the first thing Dick asked. Jason came over, standing by the foot of the cot with his arms crossed tightly.

Bruce nodded, clearing his throat before he said, “We thought you were dead.”

Dick sat up, running a hand through his hair. “Huh,” he said, mouth twisting a little. “I’m sorry?”

"Damn right you're sorry." Jason stepped forward before Bruce had a chance to respond. “Just don’t fucking do it again, or I’ll actually kill you this time. I mean it, you asshole. I’m not cut out to be the oldest.”

Dick huffed a small laugh, getting up. “Aw, Jay,” he said as he wrapped his arms around his brother. Jason clutched at him, instead of shoving at his head or kneeing him in the groin like he normally did. Bruce was close enough that he clearly heard the words Dick whispered. “No one is, until they have to be. I _am_ sorry.”

Jason stepped away, running a hand down his face. “Not your fault. Probably, anyway,” he said. “What even happened?”

Dick shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea. One minute we were in the ship, and the next I’m waking up in bed. I called the rest of the team on the mission, and they all reported the same.” He frowned. “I did wake up completely naked, though. So that was weird.”

Jason laughed incredulously, bordering on hysteria. “I can’t believe this shit,” he said. “Can none of us die properly?” His phone buzzed, and he glanced down at it, chewing on his lip as he walked to the other end of the Cave.

Bruce stood from the chair he’d been rooted to for the past minute. “We’ll need to run more tests on you,” he said.

Dick nodded, face becoming serious. “I’ll gather everyone,” he said. He looked at Bruce for a moment. “B… how long?”

Bruce took in a breath. “Three and a half weeks,” he said.

“Oh, shit,” Dick said faintly. “Bruce…”

Bruce shook his head, stepping towards Dick. He wrapped his arms around him, like he’d wanted to do ever since the results came back as a match, ever since he’d seen Dick emerge from his room, ever since he’d gotten the news from Clark.

Dick had always responded to hugs in kind, but this time the roles were reversed – he held Bruce like _Bruce_ was the fragile thing, like he hadn’t been the one who’d been thought of as dead for almost a month. But he still settled into Bruce’s arms like he always had, and Bruce suddenly had no idea how he’d managed the last few weeks, because he couldn’t imagine going back to a world where Dick was dead.

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured, a hand resting on the back of Dick’s head, revelling in the fact that he was _here_ , that he was breathing and _living_.

The part of him that had died a little, when Dick had, didn’t automatically fix itself, and probably never would entirely, but the gaping hole stopped aching for a moment.

“Still,” Dick said. “I’m sorry. That… I hate you had to go through that again, and for no reason, too.” Dick’s arms clutched Bruce’s middle, like he was trying to hold his insides together, like he’d always tried to do.

Bruce didn’t respond, focusing on breathing properly. One day, they wouldn’t be so lucky. One day they would die, and stay dead. But today, he had his son back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think!!
> 
> My card is in the series description if you want to request a square, and I'm always up for a chat on [tumblr](https://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com/)!!


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